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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28508739">Walking in Darkened Places</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/1helios1/pseuds/1helios1'>1helios1</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout 4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gun Violence, Vignette</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:54:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,598</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28508739</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/1helios1/pseuds/1helios1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission for the Railroad goes badly and the Sole Survivor pays dearly.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Walking in Darkened Places</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Trace and Audrey crept through the city, light rain struck the varied surfaces making soft music as they went, the whines and groans of the city's enormous metal skeletons playing accompaniment. Crows peered down at them, perched beneath rusty girders in the business of concentrating the drizzle into plump drops that fell with clock like regularity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Occasionally the two of them exchanged a whispered word, but mostly kept silent. Trace imagined this must be a strain for Audrey, knowing what a devoted adherent of the witty quip she was, but if the silence bothered her she didn’t show it. For Trace’s part the months of traveling together had yet to fully correct for their natural tendency towards silence, and lately some measure of extra caution was required.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Passing through the city always had its dangers, typically in the form of raiders or supermutants, but as they got closer to the airport the threats were increasingly of the Brotherhood of Steel variety. With the Prydwens fiery descent the brotherhood had lost their seat of power in the commonwealth. Most of those who had survived had begun the long march back to DC, but there were still some disordered stragglers, and Trace was not on the best terms with them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Few knew for sure who was responsible for the Prydwens destruction. The prevailing rumor was that the institute had done it. They were the monsters of the commonwealth and got the blame for most misfortune, from disappearances more easily explained by the myriad other dangers of the wastes, to someone's brahim producing less milk than the week before. At least some pockets of the Brotherhood still remaining in Boston knew the truth and, while they didn’t have the manpower or intel required to retaliate, their standing policy regarding known or suspected Railroad operatives was shoot on sight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As they drew closer to the airport they spied several small groups of Brotherhood knights and paladins, most seemed to be in the midst of prepping for departure, gathering supplies and securing important tech. Normally the Railroad would avoid operating so close to brotherhood territory, even with them in nearly complete disarray, but there had been a reliable tip about several synth refugees hiding in an old metro station and in need of an escort out of that part of the city. According to PAM the risk was acceptable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The brotherhood presence lightened some as they arrived within a few blocks of the station. Trace gestured to a basement level window belonging to a burnt out laundromat a few doors down from the metro entrance and wordlessly they entered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We can wait here for a time. See if anyone comes or goes." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And I can finally pick up my dry cleaning.” Trace gave a short exhalation of a laugh and turned away, peering into corners, taking in the room. Audrey went to the window, looking out the same way one might gaze out serenely at an empty back garden. She had a nonchalance that Trace admired. One could easily chalk it up to age and experience, but Trace guessed that Audrey had always been that way. The wasteland had simply failed to take that away from her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trace could never quite relax that much. Even as a child they had had a kind of low grade awareness they were unable to fully quiet. Sudden dangers and split second gun battles had sharpened that into a sensitive, if occasionally burdensome instrument. They didn't envy Audrey for the easy way she had about her, but sometimes they watched her and absorbed some calm by proxy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trace lifted themselves up to sit cross-legged on one of the machines. Glancing at their pip-boy for the time. Quarter to eleven. They checked their revolver, feeling the action for any unexpected resistance and, finding none, returned it to their holster.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"There are some Brotherhood up the road aways." Audrey said, gesturing north. Trace moved to the window beside her and looking where indicated saw a small patrol, laboriously moving equipment out of an apartment building. "They don't seem to have seen us, but I don't like the look of them, they seem entirely too industrious. You go in and fetch our wayward synths. I’ll keep watch and radio you if anyone should get too close. Don't take too long, darling."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trace rested their hand on her shoulder for a moment by way of goodbye and made for the door. The steps up to street level gave them a moment in cover to glance around before hurrying to the metro entrance and inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They crept past the turnstiles and ticket counters, and down the stairs to the tracks. Detritus of indefinitely delayed passengers littered the platforms. There were also some signs of more recent activity in the form of makeshift barricades fashioned out of scrap. It was not atypical for some group or another to try to build themselves of little hideout. Though as Trace knew that usually proved to be a bad idea. Sooner or later something goes wrong: flooding, radiation, attack, and you realize you're stuck in a hole in the ground with no escape. Not unlike the vaults.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Parallel tunnels stretched away from the platform in either direction. The tip had instructed them to head north once inside, though it needn't have been specified as the tunnels both terminated in rubble a little ways south. The Boston metro system was no longer fully contiguous and navigable. In the immediate aftermath of the bombs, cave ins and derailments had broken the system into isolated pockets. Two centuries of water damage, animal activity and zero maintenance had worsened things. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walking the rails was a test of one's nerves. Twenty minutes of silence punctuated by faint and distant sounds, of bioluminescent plants and the barely lit expanses between. They occupied their mind with plans for warm soup and a long rest. The Railroad had taken a few hits and Trace had been filling in the gaps. Months of overwork had left them with a good amount of caps and a strong need for a vacation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a while the tunnel curved gradually to the east and upon straightening again they spied the tell tale light of a utility access door. The door opened onto a network of hallways lined with utility piping. Further in they expected to find machine rooms, generators, storage spaces and the like. Nothing all that interesting really, but they still found exploring such spaces rather exciting. Getting to look backstage as it were.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They moved through the hallways, systematically checking rooms as they found them, looking for any indication of inhabitants, and failing that any rail signs, but found neither. There were some signs of older habitation, moldering sleeping bags, empty food cans, and the like but nothing recent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Venturing deeper in, Trace rounded a corner and there, partway down the hallway, his hulking power armor framed in the light streaming through the open door behind him, was a Brotherhood paladin, plasma gatling clenched in his enormous metal hands. He seemed ridiculously outsized in what were already cramped passageways. He had not yet turned the gatling’s emitter in Trace's direction, but it would be the smallest motion to train it on them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Take a wrong turn, Scaver?” His voice was menace and mockery and Trace got the sense that they had been expected.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Must have...You wouldn’t know anything about a Mr. Galinski, would you?” Trace asked, though they suspected they already knew the answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I might know something, the question is, do you know anything about who destroyed the Prydwen and killed my brothers?” He asked, though Trace suspected he already knew the answer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I heard it was the Institute.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The paladin gave the slightest shake of the head. “Thought you might say that. Ad Vic—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His half formed reply was all the confirmation they required. Lightning quick Trace drew their revolver, thumbing the hammer back in the same motion. They twisted at the hips so as to fire the first shot the instant the barrel cleared the lip of the holster. The round struck the paladins thigh plate, an inch away from the joint, sliding harmlessly off the thick armor. But even as the recoil traveled down their forearm they were already correcting their aim. Trace had their offhand poised above the hammer and in a smooth arc they swept it across the mechanism, striking the hammer first with the back of their thumb and then again an instant later with the edge of their hand at the completion of the arc. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second two shots hit home, penetrating the thinner plates that protected the hip joint, and the flesh of the pilot beneath. The paladin grunted in pain and surprise and lurched forward, falling to one knee, the impact ejecting dry dirt into the air. The bullets would have hit the pilots thigh, and Trace knew that such a wound could easily maim, or kill if the femoral artery was ruptured.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment all was quiet and still, but only a moment. The paladin rose to his feet with a surge of fresh, and, Trace assumed, chemically induced, energy. His gatling started to spin up as he swept the barrel in their direction. Trace fired another shot as they quickly backed towards the door, this time aiming for the visor. It struck the helmet inflicting only superficial damage, but the impact caused the paladin to flinch back just as he fired, sending a torrential volley of plasma bolts into the panelling of the door frame just beside Trace, in an instant turning the metal into an expanding wave of superheated vapor. Trace recoiled from the eruptions, but not quickly enough. Their clothing shielded them from the worst of it, but a jet of the searing vapor struck their face, and the left half of their vision went dark.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trace scrambled for cover, their hand cradling their burnt face. There was no pain to speak of yet, explainable by some combination of adrenaline and catastrophic nerve damage. This damage was the kind they could smell though. Back through the door they were able to put a wall and a file cabinet between them and the paladin, but he was advancing. They could hear the gatling spin up again and another torrent of plasma fire came through the doorway, striking the far wall. It was too far away to hurt them, but they could feel heat radiate off the molten, glowing concrete.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They flipped open the revolvers loading gate and reached to the far side of their belt for fresh cartridges. These were marked by a red band around the brass and were capped by a hemisphere smooth metal.  They only owned a handful of them, but now was as good a time as any to use a few. With practiced precision they ejected the spent rounds one at a time, replacing them with the banded ones and manually indexing the cylinder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trace knew well that lingering in this room wouldn’t be an option for long. It was geometry. When the paladin entered, in only a few moments, he would be able to sweep the room with plasma without exposing much of himself to return fire, certainly nothing vulnerable to small arms. There was another door out of the room, exiting back into the main utility passage. There wouldn’t be any cover in the utility passage, but the angle would favor Trace better. It was a moment to make the decision and another to work up the courage, and then they committed themselves to the action with a dash for the far door and down the passage to the right, plasma bolts following them through as the paladin pursued. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They visualized the next moments in their mind. The paladin would step fully through the door into the passage to bring the awkward bulk of the gatling to bear. Trace would pivot and lower themselves to one knee. The first plasma bolts, if the gatling was already spun up, would pass overhead, buying them a few extra tenths of a second to aim. Time they hoped was sufficient to compensate for their diminished vision, because if the first shot missed its mark it was likely they would not get an opportunity for a second.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Heavy footfalls echoed up the passageway as the paladin advanced, stepping through the doorway. Fear gripped them, but they had a sequence of steps to execute. They moved through the motions like a choreographed dance, with the paladin as their unwilling partner. It was almost easy. The target, the sights, and their good eye all in a perfect geometric line. The round passed cleanly through the rend in the armor that they had punched earlier and detonated inside with a deep, powerful thud that sent paint chips flying from the armor like shrapnel from a grenade. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The gatling fell from the paladins hands. Blood poured from the ankle and knee joint, staining the armor red and pooling around the foot. He reached for the wound, metal fingers pawing uselessly at metal plates. Soon his efforts slowed and lost coordination until finally his arms hung limply at his sides. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trace stood and backed away, not letting their aim stray from the still and silent figure until they turned the corner. As their heart rate slowed they felt pain begin to radiate from around their left eye. They took a stim, turning it down to a low, relentless throb that was still all they could think about as they walked back the way they came. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Audrey found them when they were maybe half way back. Her flashlight bobbing up out of the darkness of the train tunnel. She had a worried expression on her face that turned to shock upon seeing their eye, and then morphed into resolve.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’s it look?” Trace asked, trying to keep their tone light.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It could be worse. Look who you're talking to.” Audrey posed in that elegant way of hers, like someone was about to take her picture, her ghoul features in sharp contrast. “No refugees in tow?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, a story to lure us into an ambush.” A hint of bitterness breaking through their composure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I feared as much when that squad started moving towards the metro entrance a little while after you went in.” In response to Trace's unspoken question she continued. “I led them on a little chase and doubled back, we have a little while to make our exit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rain was coming down in earnest when they left the station. There was no sign of the brotherhood squad and neither of them felt like sticking around to see if they showed up. It was a long walk back to Diamond city and the silence between them this time was the silence of the beaten. Trace knew that they should be pleased they survived, but it would take a while before they felt it. Sometimes a loss is a failure, and you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that whatever you have lost has been traded for some measure of experience. Other times though, it's not a failure and there is nothing really to learn and you are just less than you were before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tilting their pip-boy they could see their face in the reflection off the glass, superimposed over a dim readout of health statistics they already knew. Above the cheek was a starburst of red and black tissue and at its center their ruined eye, boiled in its socket. Rivulets of rain water ran down the glass warping the image into abstraction. </span>
</p>
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